Cloud Animals
by Antenna
Summary: Apocalypse has been averted, at a price, and now there's all the time they need. A relaxed chain of postseries stories. Giles x Xander.
1. Cloud Animals

"Horse head. That one. See it?" Xander pointed. He was flat on his back in a field, an impossibly green grassy field, with wildflowers and bees and somewhere over the hill, wooly sheep with black faces. He was flat on his back, stretched out alongside Giles. They both had hands behind their heads, and were looking at the clouds. They were little fluffy clouds, mixed with bigger more bulgy clouds, and they seemed to rise a hundred miles into the sky above the field. Xander was still getting used to not having depth perception, but that didn't matter looking at clouds, so far up.

Giles had assured Xander it was unlikely he'd be rained on, but he'd been wrong at least twice before on that issue. The wind gusted up today. It gave them a never-ending procession of clouds to watch, but it also meant things were changeable. That was another thing to get used to, weather that changed several times a day, not just twice a year.

"This is going to sound awful. It's probably going to sound awful because it is awful," Xander said. "But about half the time when I think about it, I realize I'm relieved she's dead. 'Cause it means I don't have to feel bad any more. Except then I do, about a million times worse than usual."

"Survivor's guilt," murmured Giles.

"But I am relieved. I was relieved not to marry her. Relieved when she died and she wasn't mad at me any more. There was no way I was going to fix things with her."

"No?"

"No. Couldn't. I loved her, but I couldn't fix it."

Next to him, Giles stretched, then bent one leg. Xander could see his jeans-clad knee sticking up. "Cat," said Giles. "Pointed ears, muzzle."

"Yeah, I see it. Why didn't you show up for the wedding, anyway?"

"Ah. That's complicated. There was in fact a demon, but… I'm not sure how to explain."

Giles didn't seem inclined to go into more detail, and Xander didn't feel like pressing him.

"That one looks like a sheep. Poofy body, legs sticking out that way."

"They all look a bit like sheep."

"Be like that."

The minutes flowed by. Giles seemed not to want to do anything more strenuous than lie in this grassy field with him, so Xander let them flow. It had been like this for several months now. Giles' place in Westbury was the loose home base of the Sunnydale survivors. They would appear every couple of weeks for a day or two. Eat Giles' cooking, drink his tea, relax on his comfortable furniture. Then they'd be off again. Sightseeing in Rome, in Buffy's case. Swanning through Paris with her rich girlfriend, in Willow's.

Of the three friends, only Xander seemed disinclined to wander far from the still center of Giles' farmhouse. He had learned how to help Giles and his single hired hand with the daily chores: mucking out stalls, feeding the horses, feeding the sheep, tending animals and tack. Periodic inspection of the paddocks and fields. Giles had even had him up in the saddle a few times. He'd liked it fine. It wasn't a hobby he needed two eyes for. Unlike shooting a crossbow. He'd never be good at that again.

The work was what Xander needed right now. He'd begun losing the weight he'd gained in Sunnydale-depression, regaining muscle and some amount of physical confidence. He felt better. He wasn't sure what Giles made of it, but Xander had decided that this was what close friendship felt like. Not that it needed a label.

Dawn stayed near Giles as well, in deference to Buffy's demand that she be locked into a convent. She'd made friends in Giles' village already, and spent the day giggling with them more often than not. Dawn wanted to finish school here in England, as Giles' ward, and it seemed like she'd get her wish. The two of them were good for each other, in Xander's expert opinion.

Today was a lazy day. The two men had walked out to the field after lunch, checked on the sheep, then become distracted by clouds on the walk back. Eventually they had lain on their backs on the hillside to get a better view.

Giles pointed left. "Dragon. See the wing? Oh, it's changed already."

"Trust you to say dragon and not bird."

"Why were you relieved not to marry her?"

"Complicated. But basically… well, okay, the deal is that Anya and I had an open relationship. The whole time. She liked sex too much to stick with just me, and I, um, I liked guys too much to stick with just her. We kept it quiet. Figured nobody would understand. People might get judgmental."

Though Giles hadn't been one of the ones Xander had worried about. He'd always just rolled with whatever strange thing the gang had chosen to do this time. And he didn't seem particularly judgmental now. He said merely, "Couldn't you have continued the arrangement?"

The low cloud blowing over them now was darker than the others. Xander smelled the rain before he felt the first spatters on his face. He stood, and pulled Giles up along with him. The two men ambled toward the door of Giles' farmhouse. Neither was in much of a rush to escape the rain. It was warm rain, summer rain, gentle on Xander's hair.

"Maybe," said Xander, holding the back door for Giles. They shed their muddy boots just inside the door and stepped into the huge kitchen. Xander sometimes thought Giles lived in this room. He cooked here, ate here, sharpened his weapons on the table here. The whole house was wonderful, comfortable, intensely homey, but the kitchen was its heart.

They sat at the table. Xander put his chin on his arms and thought about how to say this. "Maybe. But I was starting to get the idea that maybe I was more into men than into women. I wasn't sure. I'm still not. I like both a lot. I couldn't figure it out, and I had been doing some intense thinking there right before the big day. I'd always labeled myself as being a straight guy with a sideline in sucking cock, pardon my French. I was shocked spitless to think that maybe I was a gay guy with a sideline in enjoying girls. I felt it wasn't going to be fair to either one of us to go through with it. Hard to know what this feels like, maybe, if you're into the one flavor."

"I do know."

Xander sat up straight. "Woah, really? You?"

"Mmm."

"I had no idea. We only ever saw you with the chicks."

"Well, I must confess that my bisexuality is, at this point, theoretical."

"Huh?"

"A couple of years ago, I came to realize that my… attentions were drawn to another man. It was quite alarming at first, let me assure you. Then I decided to simply accept it. To admit that one can still surprise oneself at the age of forty-five. Though it did rather explain some things. Recurring, uh— Well."

Xander leaned his arms across the wide boards of the table. "So shocking myself at twenty-one isn't so weird."

"Goodness, no. You might be shocking yourself routinely for another decade. Longer."

Giles stood and filled the kettle. He used a match to light the ancient gas stove, with its huge burners and blackened metal top. Kettle on the burner; tea measured into the basket for the pot. Xander went to the cupboard to pull out a pair of mugs. He chose his favorites, blue stoneware. He rummaged in the drawer for a pair of battered spoons, then set them all out on the table. Giles got the milk out of the fridge. He leaned against the counter, hands braced back against the edge, while they waited for the kettle to go.

Giles was as casual as Xander had ever seen him, and that included his lost year spent watching _Jeopardy_. He was in baggy button-fly jeans and a rumpled t-shirt; his hair was curling over his ears, and a little green jewel seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his ear. He was more like his old self every day, and less like the shellshock victim he'd been at the start of the summer. Like they'd all been. Relaxed Giles looked a decade younger than he'd looked standing on the edge of the pit. Xander looked at him with his one eye and thought maybe he'd never really seen Giles properly when he'd had two. He was handsome, all chin and cheekbone. The sort of face that would stay handsome, so that at seventy you would look at Giles and react.

Xander found himself reacting now. Giles apparently pushed his buttons. It added to the thrill to think that Giles was interested in men but was completely inexperienced. Xander could imagine himself showing Giles how to do it. Making it more than just theoretical. But Giles deserved more than an "exchange nods, meet in the alley behind the Bronze for a quick blowjob" thing. More than a "hi, my name's Chad, I'll stay overnight, eat your omelet in the morning, then never see you again" thing. And that was all Xander had experience with. Besides the relationship with Anya, and he'd screwed that up royally.

The kettle whistled. Giles shoved himself away from the counter and took it off the flame. He poured. Xander made himself useful pulling out two of the scones he'd baked yesterday. Giles had taught him how to do that, too. He was getting good at it. Another thing he could do that didn't need depth perception. He could bake scones, and ride a horse, and read the book on Slayer physiology Giles had given him. Phase one in turning him into a Watcher, his new self.

"So you think I shouldn't feel bad?"

"Hmm." Giles poured hot water. "About the decision you made? No. It's always useful to ask if you could have handled things better, announced your decision in a better way. If you treated her as well as you could. But that choice was your right to make."

Giles' cat Milos appeared on cue, summoned by the kettle. Xander poured milk for him, then put the pitcher on the table for their tea.

Tea and scones with fresh butter, eaten at the huge wooden table in the Giles family house. Simple things, so new to Xander, childhood comforts to Giles. Giles had grown up here. Generations of Gileses had. Giles had dismissed it as a "hobby farm," had said they'd been Watchers and academics for several hundred years and kept the land just so they could have the horses a gentleman ought. His grandfather had modernized the place, so it was a mix of new and old, all of it comfortable. Giles had paid somebody to live there and maintain it while he was in Sunnydale.

There were other signs that Giles had money, but none of them mentioned it. It didn't matter. The new Council had them all on salary now. For the first time in Xander's life, money wasn't an issue. Anya would have loved it. She'd have been the Council's new CFO and been in heaven. She'd probably have irritated the hell out of him by comparing her salary to his and pointing out how much more she made.

Xander blew across the surface of his tea. "What about feeling relieved she's dead?"

"Normal part of grieving, I'm afraid. It'll pass, and you'll be able to think of her and remember the good things. We're all still mourning the year's losses, Xander. Do you remember the Council people who shut down the Magic Box that time?"

Xander laughed briefly at the memory and drank.

"They're all dead now. Every one. In the explosion. Quentin Travers, no longer a thorn in my side. I mourn him and I'm relieved at the same time."

"Harsh. Wow. I hadn't thought about—" He felt a little ashamed, that he hadn't thought about what had been going on with Giles back in the winter.

"I chose not to talk about it. There would be time for all that after we defeated the First. If we did. And—" Giles spread his hands. "Here we are. With the time."

Giles' cellphone went. He answered and immediately dove into a conversation about site inspections and demolition. The slow-motion rebuilding of the Council had begun with the dismantling of the remains of the old one. Robson had had a team sifting through the rubble for a couple of months now, attempting to recover what they could of the Council's library and artifacts. They were done; new construction would begin soon.

Giles gulped the rest of his tea, then stood. "Yes, yes, let me just verify that." He moved down the hall to his office, still talking. The kitchen windows brightened with sunlight. The rainstorm had blown over. Xander collected mugs and spoons and washed up. Then he wandered to the window and watched the moving clouds. Giles came back into the kitchen, in the middle of his goodbyes to Robson.

Xander beckoned him over. "Vampire. Ridged forehead, one fang. Check it." It really did look like a fang.

Giles came up close behind him to look. He laughed. The two men stood and watched the cloud slowly shift in the wind, moving across the sky. Xander was conscious of Giles standing close behind him, warm and solid. Present. Reassuring. Proof that survival was possible. And reconstruction. Giles had been through some stuff, far worse than what Xander had. And here he was.

Xander turned partway and leaned a shoulder against the window. Giles stepped forward and pulled the window open a few inches. "Hey. Why'd you let things stay theoretical?"

"Oh, you mean, ah. Well. I never said anything to the, um, object of my, uh." Giles broke off and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

"And he was the only guy you've been interested in?"

"Only person I've had feelings for in the last few years, yes." He was now staring fixedly outside the window.

"But you said nothing."

"At the time I believed him to be both straight and in a relationship. So no, I said nothing."

"At the time?"

"I learned, uh, quite recently, that my affections might be, n-not unwelcome. One of my assumptions turns out to have been wrong. So perhaps we-we might… If he could be interested in someone so much older than he." Giles looked steadily at Xander for a few breaths, then returned his gaze to the window.

Xander didn't even consider pretending not to understand him. This was one of those moments where everything came together in a perfect coherent picture, for a few seconds looking exactly like a sheep or a cat. Several things about the last few years made sense now. And the last couple of months, why Giles had just accepted him without question.

He considered pretending to think it over. But really he'd made his decision in that first second. Time for reconstruction, relationships, relaxation.

"Yeah, I think he could be. A little surprised, but… interested."

Giles grinned, just a flash, a wide grin that lit the room for a moment. Then he flushed, and looked down. "Oh! Well, um."

"He knows you pretty well. And thinks you're swell."

"Flattered, I'm sure," said Giles, drily.

Xander nudged him with a shoulder. Giles cleared his throat, then slipped an arm around Xander, a bit awkwardly. Xander leaned forward, and kissed him. He responded tentatively, then Xander eased back. Giles' hands were trembling.

"You okay?"

"Yes. I— just nerves. Theory becoming practice."

"Hey, man, no rush. We have all the time in the world." And they did, for once. For now. Xander pulled Giles's arms around his waist, then turned and leaned back against his chest.

The clouds were still scudding past. Xander pointed. "That one looks like a dog. Floppy-ears kind."

Giles' chest shook against his back for a moment, and Xander felt breath on his ear from Giles' silent laugh. "If you're daft, it does."


	2. Slow Rise

"Do I have to wear the apron?"

"Yes, you have to wear the apron. Unless you don't mind getting flour all over your clothes."

Xander tied the apron around his waist. At least it was a plain green one. Nothing girly. Not that Rupert had girly things in his kitchen. It was all business, this kitchen. Every knife could do double-duty. Gut fish, gut demons. Gut fish-demons, in a pinch. Xander shuddered, and turned his attention back to his new boyfriend, who was leaning in front of the open oven door with a lit match. The gas whoomped on. Rupert shut the door and spun the thermostat all the way down as low as it would go.

"First thing we do is get all the ingredients out. If we're missing any we run round the shops." Rupert pulled two paper sacks of whole wheat flour from a cabinet and set them next to a canister of salt.

"That's a lot of flour."

"Two batches. I'll be baking alongside you." He took down a glass jar of honey with a hand-lettered label. "We need more honey soon. That we get from Mrs Parkes down the road. She keeps bees."

Xander leaned over Rupert's shoulder. "Honey? In bread?"

"Yeast food."

"Buddabudda buh?"

Rupert held up a strip of little packets. "Yeast. They eat sugar and excrete, er, carbon dioxide. Or alcohol, for other sorts. That's what makes the bread rise."

"So wait. You're saying alcohol is yeast piss?"

"Er, yes. Though fungi don't piss, strictly."

"Why do I ask you these questions? The answers are always gross."

Xander leaned against the counter to watch what Rupert did next. He poured a little honey into a bowl of warm water, then wiped the edge of the jar with his thumb. He tasted it, then stuck it out for Xander. Xander licked Rupert's thumb. Good stuff. Like everything in this kitchen. Xander had been re-learning how to eat over the last months. A lifetime of takeout Chinese and pizza and soup from a can hadn't prepared him for this. This was real food. Fresh stuff. Raw ingredients. Fresh eggs from the Giles hens. Honey from the lady two miles down the road. Milk from the dude just past her.

Xander licked Rupert's fingers clean of honey, then kept on licking. And then sucking.

Rupert groaned and pulled his hand away. "Bloody hell, Xan. Don't. We'll never get this finished."

"You started it. You with your delicious fingers, all sticky and sweet."

"Later. When the dough is rising." Rupert's voice was all ragged and husky, full of promise. Xander grinned. He had this guy wrapped around his little finger. Pretty soon he'd have him in bed. All the kissing and the tentative groping had them both right on the edge all the time. Rupert was not going to last another day with this "let's take it slowly" plan.

A slow seduction. Xander had never done one of those before. It was a nice change. He'd been enjoying it, but he'd had enough.

Rupert got out two big ceramic bowls and handed one to Xander. "The yeast has a good start, so what we do now is begin making dough. That's simply warm water and flour. A little salt and oil, then we start adding the rest of the flour."

Flour. A whole ton of flour into the bowl. Salt. Xander watched what Rupert was up to and tried to imitate. He dumped a cup of warm water into a divot in the center of the mound of flour and gave it a quick stir. Mix it in. Mix in more flour. And more. It was stiffening up, and moving the spoon was starting to take muscle.

"Merciful Zeus! Where's a Slayer when ya need one?"

Rupert snorted. "Use your hands. Flour them up and start kneading. Watch me."

Xander watched Rupert fold the dough over and push with the heels of his hands. He imitated and fell into the rhythm. After a few minutes, his forearms felt it. His temples were sweaty. "So how long do I have to do this?"

"Twenty minutes. Until it looks right."

Xander watched Rupert's hands on his lump of dough. Shirt-sleeves rolled to expose muscled forearms, the kind you earned from swordfighting practice. The kind Xander had been earning himself in the last couple months. Strong arms, strong hands. Callused hands. Scarred fingers dusted with flour. Flour all over the place, in fact.

"I see what you mean about the apron." Rupert laughed at him. "What?"

"You have flour in your hair. No, don't touch it! You have more now. Don't fuss. It's quite charming. So is the streak on your nose."

If Rupert's expression had been any less adoring, Xander might have been pissed by the giggling. But instead he felt funny in his chest. This was the part that left him awed and silent, the knowledge that this man loved him. Had loved him for years, without saying a thing. It choked him up. He was so damn glad Rupert had finally said something.

"Twenty more minutes of this?" he said, to cover.

"Mmm, yes. It's a wonderful time to get thinking done. Or to revise. _Lamicida._ Which declension? Go."

Xander groaned. "Slavedriver. I hate you. First, singular. Lamicida, lamicidae, lamicidae, lamicidam..."

Twenty minutes of kneading later, Xander had something that looked like dough and wasn't as sticky as it had been. It was a smooth brown lump. He eased it into a bowl, covered the bowl with a towel, and set it next to Rupert's at the back of the stove.

"Now we wait for the dough to rise."

"For the yeast to burp."

"If you must put it in those terms."

"Oh, I must. I so must. Now what was you said earlier? About when the dough is rising? Which, I happen to observe, it is now doing?"

"Oh," Rupert murmured. "Why don't you remind me?"

Xander pushed him gently back against the counter. Rupert might be nervy about his first time in bed with another man, but he was not nervy about the kissing. And damned if he wasn't amazing with the kissing. Xander'd had his share of other people's tongues shoved in his mouth by overeager partners, and his share of hot makeout sessions with total strangers. This was different. When Rupert finally let you taste him, it was after ten minutes of teasing, little flicks along your lips, diversions to kiss the edge of your jawline all the way to your ear and back down your throat, then finally giving you the deep slow open-mouthed kiss you'd been begging for all along, the kiss that taught you you'd only been kissed by dilettantes before now.

Xander pressed his hips against Rupert's, seeking that bulge to grind against. There it was. He seriously wanted to see Rupert naked. Soon. Now. Wanted to taste him. Though maybe that would be moving too fast. Keep it slow. Make Rupert beg. Zeus in a swan suit, Xander was about out of patience. He needed this man. Needed him more than he'd ever needed anybody.

Rupert's cellphone buzzed in his hip pocket.

"Bugger." Rupert disengaged just enough to dig it out. "Giles here. Oh, hello, Armitage. Yes, yes."

Rupert listened for a minute. Xander tilted his head. Armitage was Rupert's estate caretaker, the guy who'd done all the work while Rupert was in Sunnydale. Retired Watcher. Sounded like demon business, in fact.

"Oh dear. I'll be along directly to clear it up." Rupert snapped the phone closed and said another one of those weird Brit swear words.

"There's something in the fountain in the village center. It just frightened a a pensioner. Probably a Grummitch. The village has a colony somewhere." Rupert sighed. "It's not particularly dangerous. I'll call Buffy. She's in Bath, shopping or drinking mochas or possibly both."

He bent to Xander for one last kiss, then flipped open his cellphone. Most annoying job on the planet.

An hour and a half later, Rupert returned from the village. He stomped into the kitchen through the back door, all windblown and damp. Soaked from the thighs down, in fact. Xander put down his book on small unit tactics and stood to greet him.

"Buggering hell," Rupert said, pleasantly. "The damn things wanted _chocolate_ biccies. Gingernuts wouldn't do. I stood in the fountain for damn near ten minutes trying to decipher their kitchen Latin."

Xander cocked his head and stared at Rupert for a second, then decided not to ask. He'd get Andrew to tell him what the deal was with Grummitches some other time. "Where's Buffy?"

"Refused to come. Said there was no way she was going to cut short her shopping for a Grummitch. Slayers! My grandmother always used to say that in her day Slayers obeyed their Watchers and were respectful, but I've never known one to pay a moment's attention to anything I say. Grandmother lied to me." Rupert leaned against the counter and looked meditative.

Xander had heard this one before and didn't particularly need to hear it again. "Yeah. Right. So, um, poofy dough? It's really poofy now."

Rupert refocused and switched smoothly to cooking mode. He twitched the cloth off the bowls of dough and made a satisfied sound. He stuck a finger into one of of the lumps. "Perfect. Now you just squash out the gasses and make them into round blobs again. Right, just like that."

"Okay. Now what? Another hour or so?" Xander waggled his eyebrows, imagining that Rupert would need a nice long, hot, boyfriend-equipped shower to wash off the Grummitch.

"No, just half an hour this time. Plenty of time for me to change. Back down in a tick. Why don't you get out your Latin grammar? I want to show you what I had trouble with just now."

Xander sighed. At this rate it would be next year before he managed to get laid by his own boyfriend.

One unwanted grammar lesson later, the dough was finally loaf-shaped and sitting in greased pans. The pans were old, black with use and almost slick enough not to need any grease at all. Rupert's huge oven was heating up. Xander bent over the dough and looked at it. It was pale tan, with brown flecks from the wheat bran. Smooth. It didn't look like it would turn into bread, but he'd learned that baking was weird. Things underwent strange transformations in the oven. And yeast was extra weird, what with the burping.

"Is this another rise?" he asked.

"Not exactly. More like a bit of a rest period for the dough." Rupert picked up Xander's book on tactics from where he'd discarded it on the kitchen table. "This discusses a typical rifle squad," he said with a puzzled voice.

"Yeah. Andrew said it could be adapted to our use. Crossbows instead of M4s. The stuff about moving in urban territory is all perfect as is."

"Mmm." Rupert turned the page. "Yes, I see what he means. Must read this myself."

"Um, now? We have some time to kill, and--"

Rupert put down the book. "Only ten minutes. Then we pop them in the oven. And then--"

The two men grinned at each other. Two hearts beating as one, Xander thought. Or two other body parts, maybe. If he was lucky.

About fifteen minutes later, he was feeling pretty lucky. Rupert slid the pans into the oven and levered the door shut decisively. Xander untied the apron and hung it on the wall hook where Rupert's was. They stood poised, looking at each other, for about ten seconds. And then they slammed into each other. Game over. Hands everywhere and frantic kissing. Rupert pushed Xander against the table and swept out a hand. Xander's books went flying. Xander fell backwards onto the table, pulling Rupert down with him. He wrapped his legs around Rupert's waist. Rupert was half on top of him, biting at his neck.

Clothes. Bad. Clothes had to go. He began pulling Rupert's shirt out of his jeans, so he could get his hands on that chest.

"Oh my god, my eyes! Ew!" Buffy's voice, from the general direction of the back door.

"I suggest you stop looking and go _away_, Buffy." Rupert, bless him, did not stop with the hand on Xander's thigh, even though Xander's heart had leapt straight up into his throat. Exhibitionism was so not his thing.

"Can't. Sorry. What the heck are you up to humping Xander on the table-- again I say ew-- when there are _demons_ running around in your own village? What happened to sacred duty, blah blah bitty blah?"

Rupert stopped then, and raised his head enough to glare at Buffy. "What?"

"You know, sacred duty? That thing you're always on me about doing? I stopped off to check out that Gromit thing you said was such a pain."

Rupert stood up and tugged at the tails of his shirt. Xander pushed himself upright and attempted to adjust himself in his jeans without being too obvious.

"I took care of that an hour ago, Buffy." Rupert had that tone in his voice, the one that said he had infinite wells of patience that somehow his Slayer had managed to run dry.

"Yeah, well, there's another demon in the fountain now. An M'Fashnik. It's smashing the statue of that guy, admiral ha-ha." Buffy did the Nelson laugh perfectly. You forgot Buffy had a brain at your peril.

"Bloody fucking _hell_!" Rupert let loose a long streak of invective, only some of which was in English.

Buffy put her hands on her hips. "Xan, you are corrupting my Watcher."

"No way. I am not up to this level. This is heavyweight _professional_ swearing." Xander propped his chin on his knee and listened with admiration.

Rupert stuttered to a halt and sighed. "Weapons. Get the axe from the front rack."

There was a broadsword hanging in a scabbard by the back door. Rupert snagged that while Buffy scampered to the weapon rack by the front door. Xander hopped down from the table. There was no way in which this didn't suck, but there was also no way he was going to argue. Demons had to be killed. Xander scrubbed at his hair until it stood on end. Maybe tomorrow they'd have some uninterrupted time. Maybe tonight, even, depending on when Rupert and Buffy managed to hunt it down, hack it up, and bury the bits.

Rupert was pulling on a sweater. He headed for the back door, then turned around and came back to Xander at the table.

"Xan." Rupert brushed his lips against Xander's ear. "When I get back, I want to find you in my bed. No matter how late. Move into my bedroom. Would you?"

"Yeah. Yeah. No problem." Xander grinned. His heart was pounding. Oh yeah. He took a big fistful of Rupert's sweater and pulled him down for one more kiss.

"Do you two never quit it? C'mon. We have a demon to kill, Romeo." Buffy had her arms crossed and she was tapping her foot. She elbowed Rupert in the side on his way past, and winked at Xander. And then they were gone, off to do the worst job in the world, the one they were best in the world at.

It was past ten. The bread had long since finished baking and cooling. It was only a little burnt. One loaf, anyway. The others had been fine. Xander had eaten about six slices with marmalade for dinner. Eventually he gave up trying to study Latin in the kitchen and took himself upstairs to check out Rupert's bedroom. Move some clothes in, maybe. He grabbed a few necessities and went down the hallway to the door Rupert went into every night. He slowly creaked open the door and stepped in.

Rupert's bedroom was nicer than Xander's. Xander suspected he'd been sleeping in the room that had been Rupert's when he'd been a kid. Single bed, a lot of bookshelves, a desk that was a just a bit too small for Xander to feel comfortable at. Rupert's room felt different. It was no kid's bedroom: this was the official head-of-household bedroom. Much bigger, with east-facing windows and a huge cushioned window seat. Older furniture.

He inhaled. It smelled like Rupert did. Sandalwood and leather and tea and books, and the sweet summer air from the open windows. Yeah. Xander was going to like sleeping here. He grinned. If sleeping was what they did. He had a suspicion there'd be a lot of other stuff going on for a while.

Most importantly, this room had a huge bed. Plush. Lots of pillows. Xander stripped to boxers and t-shirt and arranged three-quarters of the pillows in a mound at the headboard. He propped himself up on them and resumed reading the squad tactics book. He tried not to worry too much. Buffy killed regular demons in her sleep these days; her Slaying stat was what Andrew called a natural 18. Eventually he dozed off, the book face-down on his lap, all the lights still on.

A hand on his shoulder woke him: Rupert, at the bedside, smiling down at him. He stank of demon and mud. Xander rubbed at his face and focused. Yeah, Rupert was covered in black goo and his sweater was shredded at the waist. He had a big streak of mud on his face. He looked happy otherwise, the way he always looked after a good Slayfest. Xander grinned up at him.

"Must get the blood off," Rupert whispered. He was gone again. Xander half-dozed through the sound of the shower running. He came awake again to see Rupert slipping in from the hallway, dressed in his fluffy black robe. His hair was damp and sticking up. He locked the door behind himself and came over to Xander's side of the bed.

"Where were we?" he said.


	3. Office Hour

Giles slammed the office door shut and shot the bolt. The bolt was a flimsy thing, easily ripped out of the wall if a rambunctious Slayer decided to burst the door in, but it was more the symbolism of the thing. He leaned his forehead against the door and blessed its solidity. The noise was all on the other side.

"At last we are alone," said Xander. He came up behind Giles and slipped his arms around his waist.

Giles groaned in frustration, then turned in Xander's arms. "How many of them are there, again?"

"We got seven in the house today. Seven Slayers, and about a hundred Cadbury eggs. Ay-yi-yi."

"I'll disinherit Dawn when I see my solicitor tomorrow. Remind me. What are we supposed to be doing in here?"

"Paperwork. Permits for running the school or something."

Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose. "The consultants are doing that for us. I sent the last batch off to them yesterday."

Xander pressed closer. "So what you're saying is, we've got nothing to do for an hour or two, and the ravening hordes are locked outside the door."

Xander's sly grin demanded an answer, and Giles was happy to return it. And return Xander's kiss. So strange, the feeling of another man in his arms. Had he been waiting all his life for this? Xander's firm arse in his hands, his scratchy chin, his strong hands braced on Giles's shoulders, the way he took command of the kiss as Giles had been used to doing with women: all strange, all new, all wonderful.

Xander broke away. "You gotta get a couch in here or something."

"Pardon?"

"Where are we going to sit to make out? The floor? Your desk is way too messy."

Giles contemplated his desk in dismay. He'd left the architect's drawings out, as well as the reference materials on Grummitch demons, since the village colony had grown fractious. No hope for the desk. He might be able to cram a little sofa in with the office furniture and the inevitable bookshelves, but certainly not in time to do them any good. The Turkey carpet had seen better days, with the wear lines in it dating from his father's pacing days.

Xander pulled out the desk chair and spun it around.

"Sit. Room for two."

Perhaps. The chair was an ancient rolling office chair as old as Giles was, built like a tank with springs that pinged but never seemed to give out. Giles sat, and Xander knelt over his lap. The chair tipped all the way backward and creaked alarmingly, but held. Brilliant thinking. It was even easier to fondle his arse in this position. Arse and thighs, hard with riding muscle under worn jeans, flexing as Xander ground himself against Giles's lap. Erection against erection, another startling and wonderful experience, wildly exciting. Giles groaned into Xander's mouth, and turned up the intensity. He might be new at this game of sex with another man, but he was a past master of the art of snogging. His experience was entirely applicable to men, and he proceeded to apply it.

Someone hammered at the door, and the knob turned. The door creaked.

Giles slammed a fist down on the chair arm. "Bloody fucking hell."

"Is Xander in there? We need Xander." One of the Slayers, Vi by the accent.

Xander said something nasty under his breath, which the Slayers could probably hear anyway. "What?" he said, aloud.

"We need you to--"

"No, you don't."

"But--"

"Look, Giles and I are in here making out. Go away."

A moment of silence, then a burst of female giggles. "Okay."

Then rapid footsteps, retreating down the hall. Giles felt his cheeks burn. The blunt approach was effective, though, he had to admit. He gave himself a moment for his anger to fade, to change gears back into snog mode. Xander, however, had run far ahead of him. He had a hand on Giles's belt buckle and was tugging at it.

"What--"

"Stupid buckle. Complicated. I figure we have half an hour before they invent another excuse to listen at the door. No time to lose. Office blow job. Right now. Fulfill your wildest fantasies. Help me get your pants off."

Xander had already demonstrated his willingness to have sex anywhere, at a moment's notice. Giles had been that way himself, at that age, heedless of where he was or who was watching so long as he had a willing partner. Those days were long over, but Giles was happy to revisit them. He would die a sated man now, perhaps of embarrassment, perhaps of heart failure. He let Xander undo his trousers and gripped the arms of the chair for dear life.

He was never going to be able to look at the chair the same way ever again. Trousers down around his ankles, bare bum on the leather padding, slouched, legs spread wide, Xander's head moving between his thighs-- Bloody hell, the man's mouth was marvelous. He was marvelous. He was Giles's now. Giles would have laughed in sheer joy, but he didn't have the breath. Lord, yes, this was what he'd been seeking in those fantasies, those secret moments when he was alone in his bed and in his head, wishing for something he didn't understand. Why his heart squeezed in his chest when Xander smiled at him. He remembered what Xander's penis had looked like, in bed last night, what it had felt like in his hand. What it might feel like when he did this for Xander for the first time, what he would do with lips and tongue, how Xander would moan when he came--

That was enough and Giles had no time even to gasp out a warning before he spent himself into Xander's mouth. When he opened his eyes again he found Xander looking smug, wiping his mouth. Kiss-swollen lips. Marvelous lips. Giles was too wrung out to feel smug. In another moment, Xander was up and in his lap again, and kissing him. Giles tasted himself in Xander's mouth. He hadn't tasted Xander yet that way, or any other man for that matter. It was time to learn. He'd finally found what he wanted. He stroked Xander's hair with trembling hands and let his racing heart slow.

Xander pulled back. "You like? Was good?"

"Like? Xander-- Lord, I love you." Xander stared at him, eye wide in surprise. Giles backpedaled from his own emotion, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. That was insufficiently, er, macho."

Xander shook his head. "No, no, it's fine. Guys say that stuff to each other, too. It's more, um..."

"It's all right if you don't--"

"No, I was just thinking that I hadn't ever heard another guy say it to _me_. I kinda like it. From you. Say it as much as you like."

And there went his heart again, squeezing or expanding or something that felt wonderful. Giles said, "Right then."


	4. Risotto

Rupert was on a late-afternoon train. He'd been two days in London this time, on head of Council business. Xander picked him up at the station in downtown Bath. He was obviously tired and grumpy about something. He slung his little rolling suitcase into the trunk, then hung a garment bag more carefully in the back seat of the Beemer. He collapsed into the passenger seat.

Xander leaned over and kissed him, then reversed out of the parking space.

"Bloody Savile Row," Rupert said. "Bloody endless fittings. Bloody Whitehall. Bloody committees. Bloody stupid architects."

"I got a Scotch and fizz waiting for you at home, hon." Xander eased through the beginnings of the commute traffic, and onto the road heading east to Westbury and their house. The police driving class the Council had sent him to had been a trip. He'd finally started looking right-left-right instead of left-right-left. And of course he'd achieved the pinnacle of his boyhood ambition: he now knew how to brake a car into a high-speed u-turn. Turned out driving wasn't so bad with only one eye.

Not that late-afternoon Bath traffic demanded such maneuvers. Xander wished it did. Rupert had that restless look on his face, that itchy tense distraction that led to outbursts. Or the closest he came to what Xander would call an outburst. A day spent in the workout room, sword-fighting an imaginary opponent. Riding Otto for hours, returning at sundown jogging alongside him with man more lathered than horse. Or one of those fits of passion that left even Xander exhausted at the end of them.

It was better when Buffy was in the country. The two of them would go vamp-hunting, and Rupert would be steady for days afterward. It was like Watchers had a mini-version of the dustlust that Slayers had. Xander made a mental note to look this up. He had rapidly become one of the few living experts in what it meant to be a Watcher.

"So," he said, once they were well out of city limits, and winding through countryside. "Crappy meetings?"

"Yes and no. Yesterday was all government committees, briefing idiots on issues their staffs ought to have handled. Today wasn't so bad. We did end up hiring that therapist fellow. I convinced them."

That had been Willow's suggestion, following a painful discussion about combat veterans and shellshock and what she'd seen in all of the Slayers. Rupert had vanished for one of those afternoons spent running alongside Otto, then reappeared with new resolutions in hand. He would train and treat Watchers the way he wished he had been handled. As the summer ended, and construction on new Council facilities began, Rupert had started classes going.

Xander and Andrew and Dawn were the first students of the new curriculum, the Giles curriculum. Firearms and swordfighting, Sun Tzu and Clausewitz, martial arts and massage, psychology and Latin. He'd set the three of them to the task of revising the handbook as they learned it. He didn't take all their suggestions, but he'd demonstrated clearly that no past tradition was sacred.

And the further Giles innovation: Watchers and Slayers, next to each other in the classes. Slayers got more weapons training, Watchers got more on adolescent psychology, but otherwise, they were together. But at the moment, the Slayers outnumbered the Watchers four to one, even counting the three survivors of the old Council. They were all housed in the temporary training facilities near Westbury, just a few miles further from Bath than the Giles property was.

So now weekly sessions with a shrink would start as well, for everyone who was in the field. There had been some moments in Sunnydale when Xander had thought that a shrink was exactly what Buffy needed. All of them, to be honest.

Xander turned off the road onto the long drive that wound back to the house. Rupert was still deep in thought about something. He came to when Xander shut off the engine. He smiled at Xander a little wearily. "Dinner, love? I'd like to cook tonight, if you don't mind."

Xander grinned and leaned across the bucket seats to grab another kiss. "Mind? You're crazy."

"Right, then. Just let me scrub the city off."

Rupert appeared in the kitchen a half-hour later, with wet hair, smelling of his sandalwood soap. He had on faded jeans and a blue button-down shirt, tails out. He'd put on an earring, a little onyx stud Xander had found for him, to match the signet ring. Xander liked this look on him. It was the Giles he'd known for years, right alongside the Rupert he'd fallen in love with in the last months.

Xander put a marker in the book he was reading, on vampire behavior. "Want that drink?"

"No, no. Feel much better now. You keep studying." Rupert gave Xander a little smile.

Xander didn't open his book again, however. He leaned an elbow on the kitchen table and watched, head turned to point his good eye in the right direction. Rupert set some funky-looking dried mushrooms soaking in water, then vanished down to the cellar, where he kept wine. Just like the movies, though he only had the one rack. He reappeared with something in one of those heavy-shouldered bottles. He opened it, sniffed, made a harrumphing noise, then left the bottle on the table. Xander rotated the bottle to read the label. Barolo. Italian. Red.

He tied on his apron, which really ought to look dorky but never did. Shallots diced. A few cloves of garlic sliced. Rice, measured and washed but left in the cup.

Rupert handed Xander the remains of some Pecorino. "Grate this," he said.

Xander took the cheese and rummaged out the hand grater. He leaned over the counter and grated into a bowl. Rupert hadn't said how much, so he would do the whole thing.

"Did you meet with Willow?"

"Yeah," said Xander, grating.

Rupert gave him a moment to continue, and prodded when he didn't. "And?"

"She thinks she can do something with it. Enchant a, a, fake eye or something. But not anything... nothing big. Nothing like vision. Maybe more like ESP. Magic detection. Maybe ghosts."

"Was it difficult?" Rupert didn't have to specify what. They'd talked about it beforehand, the fact that Xander was going to have to take off the eyepatch for Willow.

"Yeah. She was a champ about it. Tried to make it easier." He was down to the heel of the cheese now. A few more swipes and he'd be done.

"We all love you, you know." Rupert put a big pot over one of the front burners, and set it simmering with stock, some of the wine, and the water from the mushrooms.

"Yeah, I know." Xander carried the bowl of cheese over, then popped himself up on the countertop to watch from a closer vantage point. "I'm just bummed I can't have a Mad-Eye Moody deal. You know, see out the back of my head."

Rupert snorted. He set a big pan out over low heat. "It bothers you," he said, looking up from the pan while he sloshed oil around it. "Exposing it again."

"No, that's not... Well, that's part of it, but I think I'm starting to get over that. Getting a fake eye will be okay, I think. Really it's... It's the Watching. I can't shoot for shit, and it's a weak spot." And he had this superstitious Odin-dread thing going, but he wasn't ready to confess that to Rupert yet.

Shallots and garlic in, moved through the oil with a wooden spoon. "Your Slayer can help. Shemsa is a crack shot, isn't she?"

"Yeah, but..."

"But nothing. You don't have to do it all. You complement each other. It's why we go in pairs, Watcher and Slayer." Rupert dumped the rice into the pan and stirred it up. It sizzled in the hot oil.

"Oh."

"Buffy will use guns if she has to, but she's not fond of them. I like shooting. Sarah loves knife-fighting; Andrew, well..."

Xander shared a wry look with Rupert. Andrew tried, but he still tripped over his own feet in the field. Fortunately, he'd turned out to be an amazing tactical thinker. He won their war gaming exercises every time.

"I get it," Xander said.

Xander watched Rupert move at the stove. He'd take a dipper of stock, pour it into the rice, then stir for a while. Then another dipper. It was slow, and took most of his attention, but he looked completely relaxed and content. God, he was sexy, leaning over the stove in that shirt. Xander had it bad, he knew. As bad as he'd ever had it for anybody. It was utterly weird that it was Giles, stuffy Giles, the guy who'd stammered while he tried to explain to Xander that vampires existed, way back when. That had turned out to be partly an act, just one aspect of the man that he'd played up so he could fit in. The real man was more complicated. Smart, yeah, and jam-packed with weird facts, but also sweet. And intense in bed. The guy learned fast.

He liked teaching, too. Lover, boss, mentor. Xander had learned a lot.

Recently, he'd been learning what it meant to be a Watcher, and to support a Slayer. Rupert had a lot to say about that. Trust, he'd said. Trust and affection were the core. What you layered on top of that was up to you and your Slayer. Specific to the pair of you. Complicated and intense no matter what. Rupert had told Xander some weird things that had happened between him and Buffy, from fist-fights through sexual tension so strained Rupert had had to flee to cold sulky hurt that froze for weeks, fetching up at their current comfortably tight friendship. But they got through it because they loved and trusted each other.

Trust. Buffy'd had a lot to say as well. The two of them had abolished Cruciamentum. It had almost been Rupert's first move as Council head. The three older surviving Watchers had been scandalized.

Rupert poured another dipper of stock into the rice and stirred. Xander dropped down from his perch on the counter and loomed over the pan for a moment. The rice had plumped up a lot. It was a rich dark red, from the wine in the stock. Xander's mouth watered. He took over the spoon from Rupert and stirred while Rupert tossed in the cheese and a big lump of butter.

"Hey. I was thinking."

"Oh?" Eyebrow up.

"We're short a lot of Watchers."

"Yes." Rupert spun off the gas under the stockpot.

"Where are we going to get more? I mean, if we need one per Slayer, like you say. I think we need it sooner rather than later. I mean, Shemsa and I, we're pretty tight. But Vi keeps trying to get my attention in dojo, and I'm thinking it's 'cause she needs somebody's attention."

Rupert sighed. He poured the stock into a plastic container and snapped on a lid. He leaned a hip against the counter and watched Xander stir, then finally said, "You're right. She needs her own Watcher."

"So, what's the plan?"

Rupert sighed again. The tension Xander had seen in him in the car had returned to his shoulders and to his forehead. "I've been working on it with Willow for the last few weeks. Quietly. We've been researching something like what she did to activate the Potentials. Though in this case it's more of a call than an activation."

"Call?"

"A summons for anyone with the Watcher destiny. A tug at their souls, to come to, well, wherever the summoner is." Rupert took over the spoon from Xander, and tested a few grains of the rice. He took the pan off the burner. Xander turned it off.

"Destiny, huh."

"Yes. The thing that makes you want one of the worst jobs in creation. The thing that pulls you to a Slayer and her to you. You have it. Dawn has it. Willow, to a lesser extent. Ever wonder why we didn't recruit the aikido instructor as a Watcher?"

"Oh. Duh. I should have known. Had all the clues." Xander got out two pasta bowls. "How's the research coming?"

"Done. Willow has designed a spell that she thinks will work, and I agree."

"So... what's the holdup?"

Rupert spooned rice into bowls. "Get me some parsley? In the vegetable drawer. I'm the holdup, I'm afraid. I'm not ready for them. I wasn't ready for thirty adolescent Slayers, and I'm even less ready for that many Watcher candidates. I don't know how old they'll be, or how much they'll know. I don't have places for them to sleep. I'm trying to hire instructors for the things that can be taught by outsiders, but..."

Xander handed over the parsley. "We had less than this when we collected all the new Slayers. Way less. We had one dinky house in Sunnydale, and no money other than what you kicked in. Look at how much more we have now."

"But--"

"No buts, Rupert. Look around. You have the Westbury compound in progress. It's not finished, yeah, but it's halfway there. And you can fit a bunch more people in the existing house. You have all that Council money, which is kinda obscenely a lot, and don't get me started on how pissed off I was to learn _that_. Everybody has salaries now, so they can find their own places to live if they need to. You have people who can help. Put that jerk Travers Junior to work as quartermaster, for pete's sake."

Rupert's shoulders shook in a silent laugh. He carried the two bowls to the table. Xander pulled some silver from a drawer while Rupert poured wine. Full glass for himself, half-glass for Xander, who liked to taste but not really drink. They sat kitty-corner at one end of the huge table. Xander always put himself on Rupert's left, so he could see him without having to turn his head. It was almost unconscious habit at this point. All those little adjustments.

"Slainte," said Rupert, lifting his glass. "I do love you so."

"Love ya too, big guy." Xander ate a forkful of rice. It was creamy and rich. He could taste the wine and the cheese and the mushrooms. "Man. This is good. Never had rice like this before."

"It's, er, risotto. Can't get it in restaurants, because it's such a deal of work to make. Or if you do, it's done with pasta instead of properly with rice. You like it?"

"Hells, yes."

"Good, good." They ate for a while without talking. Then Rupert said, "You're right. We do have everything we need. Willow and I should, should simply do it. I've been a bit selfish, I think."

"No way."

"Yes. This has been a quiet time, for all of us, even with the rebuilding. I'll be sorry to see it end. But it has to."

Rupert stared at his bowl for a moment. Xander wondered what he saw in it. He looked less tense than he had a few minutes ago, and now more resigned. Xander reached over and rubbed his thumb over Rupert's, just a little reminder of one thing that wasn't about to end. Then he dug into his risotto.

Life was about to get busy again. Better enjoy dinner while he could.


	5. Partners

**Four AM, Cardiff**

Parking garages were awesome places for fights in movies, but Xander hated them in real life. For one thing, the vampires did things like throw you over the railings and onto lower levels that okay, weren't a full story down, but were still about half a story. All right, six feet. Far enough to hurt like a bitch when you landed badly. For another, cemeteries had nice comfy bushes to be thrown into. Parking garages had cars. Cars were made of metal and glass. Crunchy. With alarms that shrieked when you landed on them. It was a good thing his bootheel had smacked into that windshield, and not his head. 'Cause that would have hurt.

More.

Xander managed to slide off the hood and onto his feet. The vampire vaulted the railing and landed next to him. Stake? Gone. Xander found the backup in his jacket pocket and brandished it. Backed up two steps, trying to look tasty and give himself some room. There went the death-scream of the one Shemsa was fighting, under the wailing alarm of the car he'd landed on. And there was his Slayer herself, vaulting over the railing in exactly the spot the vamp had. She rolled, came up, and slammed her stake into its back with perfect accuracy.

Nice. Xander raised a hand to high-five her. Her eyes widened, and she grabbed him and hauled at him.

Something hit him on the left side, hard. Xander went down again. Landed hard again, with a whoosh of outgoing breath and then a gasp as he realized that the something had sliced into his left arm but good. Weight on him, bearing down, pain from whatever it was digging into his left arm, then suddenly it was gone. Xander levered himself up with his right hand in time to see Shemsa execute a roundhouse kick at a demon. Buffy'd been going over them in class just this week, and that one was textbook.

The demon staggered, but didn't go down. Xander cataloged it with half his brain while attempting to put the other half to work getting himself back on his feet. Green. Huge. Really huge. Ten feet at least. Too many arms. Weird metal belt around its middle.

Shemsa dropped and did a sweep kick that knocked it over. She sprang and came down on its chest with a stake in her hand. Perfect form. Stake driven deep into the chest. A burst of green fluid, a bellow, and Shemsa was flung back. She landed on top of Xander. There went his breath again. The demon was moving off, fast, down the ramp. The alarm finally shut up. Xander heard the demon's heavy footsteps echoing in the parking garage.

Shemsa got off him. Xander stayed where he was. The concrete was cold under his butt. He stared up at the gray concrete and pipes of the ceiling. There was some kind of foamy insulation sprayed all over them. You noticed the strangest things when you were on your back like this.

"You're hurt," Shemsa said to him.

"I've had worse." She gave him a hand and Xander staggered to his feet, wincing. The arm of his jacket was blood-soaked.

The evening hadn't supposed to go like this. They'd been sent to Cardiff on their first solo mission to check out vampire reports in the inner city. Get there, give Shemsa a chance to practice honing, find a vamp or maybe a gang of teenagers, stake something, be home by two. Instead they'd spent the whole night chasing vamps and this green demon, all over the worst neighborhoods in the sharp November cold. Shemsa had staked at least eight, including three in that last fight. And she'd sensed more. Vamps a gogo, way more than the last time Xander had done a training run in Cardiff, with Buffy and Giles along to supervise. They hadn't even been looking for that last fight. They'd been trying to get back to the damn car.

"Remind me to tell Rupert. There is some weird-ass shit here. That thing was wearing a bat utility belt!"

Shemsa just grinned at him, and helped him over to where he'd parked the Golf. He popped the trunk and she got out the first aid kit. He sat on the hood of the car, feet on the bumper, and watched Shemsa work on his arm. His jacket was toast: left sleeve all ripped up and bloody. His arm still worked, at least. No tendons cut. They'd been studying human and demon anatomy recently, and Xander was now officially stunned he'd survived the last seven years. Those artery things were _everywhere_.

"This isn't how it's supposed to go," Xander said, as Shemsa smeared on antiseptic. "The Slayer gets injured, the Watcher patches her up. Then her super-healing kicks in, and he tuts about her form."

"Shut up, whiner." Shemsa taped the bandage in place over his upper arm.

Xander got them out of the main part of the city before he admitted that he was weaving all over the road. Too sore to keep going. Too much blood loss. He pulled off at the sign of a chain of crappy motels and somehow got them parked without plowing into the car parked next to the office. Bloody hell.

Shemsa handed him her sweatshirt. Xander pulled it on over his blood-stained shredded shirt and staggered off to get them checked in.

In the motel room, Xander kicked off his boots and flopped back across the bed nearest the door. He groaned and reached into his pants pocket. "Fuck. Where's my cellphone?"

Shemsa fished it out of his jacket pocket and tossed it at him. Xander stabbed a hand into the air and missed. It landed on his chest. He picked it up and hit the first speed-dial button.

"Hey, yeah, it's me. Yeah, I know we're late. Tougher than expected. We're okay. Crashing for the night in a motel. Yeah, I remember. Ten am. And hey, Rupert? There is some weird-ass shit going down in Cardiff. Yeah, you too." Xander flipped the phone closed.

"Wake me up, would ya? Eight am." And Xander was out.

**Nine AM, Cardiff**

Xander came awake with a start. Sunlight edged around the curtains but the room was still dark. Motel. All-night hunt. Right. Shemsa was still asleep, which wasn't surprising. If Slayers could be up all night and sleep all day, they would. So Xander wasn't surprised that he woke up first. He was surprised when his phone check told him it was past nine already. He'd blown it.

Blood loss and bruises were no excuse for the Watcher. He had to be functional at all times, on minimal sleep. That's what the Handbook said, anyway. Both editions, the old one and the Rupert Giles get-a-clue-you-old-fogies one.

"Rupert is gonna _kill_ us," Xander said. But he lay there for a few minutes more, gathering himself for the day. He was sore. He'd slept with his socks on, and his feet felt damp and gross. His socket bugged him, under the patch. He lifted it and scrubbed at the places where it chafed. Sweat and vamp dust and a little dried blood had caked up. Yuck. He needed a shower. And another four hours of sleep. In any order. What had Rupert said? Worst job in creation.

Xander rolled out of bed and laid a hand on his Slayer's shoulder. She awakened instantly, met his glance, read his face, and said something Xander was pretty sure was a bad word in Swahili.

"Breakfast?" she said, with hope in her voice.

"No freakin' time. We're gonna be late for the summoning thingie as is." Xander stomped his feet down into his boots and started lacing them. After a moment and a heavy sigh, Shemsa sat up and imitated him. Bathroom. Checkout, with a winning grin at the cute daytime desk clerk who gave him a big smile in response. Xander swabbed blood from the driver's seat before he got in. Slayers didn't do things like mop off the blood. That was the Watcher's job. Buffy had been definite on that point.

Westbury in forty-five minutes? Doubtful. The distances were nothing in Californian terms; a sixty-mile drive was a lark for Xander. Though the drive wasn't exactly a quick jaunt up the 5. No cranking it up to eighty and steering with his knees while he wrestled with a bag of corn chips. Instead slower speeds, traffic, trying to pay attention while Shemsa handed him one of those Jaffa cookie things. He blew crumbs down the front of his shirt and dug for the cellphone. Speed-dial again.

"Yo. On the M4 outside of Newport. Yeah, I know, I know. Hard night. Details later, okay? I gotta drive. We'll be there!"

Xander tossed the cellphone at Shemsa without looking at her. He looked over his right shoulder, downshifted, pulled right, and passed the Range Rover in front of him. Time to make time.

**Eleven AM, Westbury**

Rupert was already talking to the assembled Slayers and Watchers when Xander and Shemsa crept into the lecture room. He was all dolled up in suit and tie, full Head of Council mode. His hands were deep in his trouser pockets, and he had his eyes fixed somewhere on the back wall of the room. He met Xander's glance, returned his nod, and kept talking.

Everybody was there. The entire New Council: thirty Slayers and ten would-be Watchers. The Cleveland people had arrived last night, while Xander and Shemsa were on their milk run. Faith turned and gave him the strangest look, then pointed at her chest. Xander looked down, and realized he was still wearing Shemsa's Hello Kitty sweatshirt. It was pink. No wonder the motel clerk had looked at him funny. He grinned at Faith and gave her the finger. She grinned back.

"We don't expect it'll solve the problem immediately," Rupert was saying. "They'll need to be trained, just as you see Dawn and Andrew and Xander training alongside you. A-And it may take them some time to respond to the summons. So, please, be patient. We're, we, uh, we want every one of you to have your own Watcher as quickly as is reasonable. All right? Everybody clear?"

Rupert stepped aside to make room for Willow.

"Oh, er, right. Here we go!" she said. She began casting immediately, with little ceremony or mumbo-jumbo. Xander had watched her preparing for this for the last week, rehearsing while Rupert set up travel plans for the Cleveland contingent. She and Rupert had designed this spell from scratch. Nobody had ever cast it before, and they were both nervous about it. Summon everybody with the Watcher destiny. That was it. Simple. Simpler than the Potential-activation spell had been, in some ways, Willow had said. She'd shown him a diagram to prove it. Xander had let his eyes glaze over while he nodded wisely. He didn't understand her when she got into the technical magic stuff.

She was speaking words of summoning in Latin, imperative voice, and her voice was going strange. Willow floated off the ground and her hair went white. This one was a big spell. The magic surged high enough that even a null-adept like Xander could sense it. It was like being in the room with a Van de Graaff generator, all noise and crackle and snap, energies swirling, the air fizzing. A voice took up the chant that didn't sound entirely like Willow's voice. Xander stared. Whatever the hell it was Willow was doing, it concerned Xander deeply. He was sure of that. Xander found himself walking to the front of the room. He came to a stop, shoulder-to-shoulder with Rupert and Andrew.

Willow went silent, and the energy sizzled away, snapping out into the corners of the room. She floated back down to her feet, red-haired again. Xander couldn't take his gaze off her. She shrugged at Rupert.

"Okay, that felt good. Think it worked."

"Oh yes, it worked," said Rupert.

Xander nodded, and felt Andrew nodding alongside him. "Yeah, I gotta say, I couldn't be more summoned than I am right now."

"Phase two, then," said Willow. "Touch me, and I'll transfer the summons into guardianship of your matching Slayer. One at a time, please, so I can keep you straight."

Rupert stepped up first and clasped Willow's hand. "Oh my," he murmured. Then he turned and smiled at Buffy, one of those full-face all-teeth grins that Xander loved seeing on him. He went over to her, and they hugged hard. Nobody looked surprised. A rampaging herd of rhinos couldn't separate those two.

Robin Wood stepped up, touched Willow. He grunted. He then turned to Faith, and sighed. He went over to her. She reached up, grabbed the collar of his shirt, and dragged him down for a kiss.

"Hey baby, glad it's you," said Wood.

"As if," said Faith. She kept her grip on his collar, though.

Andrew stepped up next, clearing his throat importantly. He was in full tweed. Xander shuffled. One at a time, yeah, to give Willow a chance to sort out the divinatory impressions, but man, this summons was eating at him. He felt bad for the Watcher-potentials who were in China or something, unable to do anything about it.

Andrew was shaking Sarah's hand, all formal and "Ms Livingstone" and "privilege to work with you." Then Dawn was stepping up to Eiko. That was a bit of a surprise: Dawn had been training with a few of the Slayers, not really settling down with any one of them, but Eiko hadn't been one of her gang. They grinned at each other, both of them looking pleased. So that was all right.

Xander jigged in place. He watched Robson touch Willow then drift over to Megan, the kid who almost never took off her Nomar Garciaparra jersey. Then Stark, one of the other surviving Watchers, got himself hitched up with Leah. That was everybody except him and Travers Junior, and damned if he was going to wait for that jerk.

He stepped forward and gave Willow a hug.

Magic. Twisting forces inside and around and through. For a second he saw a long line of Slayers, stretching so far back in history he couldn't grasp it. Each one had a Watcher standing behind her. Xander swayed on his feet, then came to earth solidly. He felt planted. He knew his role in this fight. He had a part. No more doubts. He was a Watcher, and his Slayer was nearby.

He turned to Shemsa and then it hit him. Not her. His Slayer was to his left. Xander swiveled his head and stepped forward uncertainly. A clump of three women, Kennedy and Faith and Vi. Wasn't Faith. Another step. Oh, god, it was Kennedy. Xander touched her arm, and felt the connection solidify. Kennedy stared at him wide-eyed. Her mouth opened, then closed with a snap.

Xander gave her a big shit-eating grin. "Um, hey. Hello. I'm your new Watcher."

**Noon**

The six of them were in the conference room, a shiny modern room with whiteboards and a computer-friendly projector and comfortable chairs and a telephone system that Rupert had never been able to figure out how to use. Xander stood in the open space in front of the whiteboards, between Rupert and Buffy in a little defensive wedge, facing off against Kennedy. Willow dithered to the side, still fizzing a bit in the magic spectrum.

"That was rather a surprise to all of us," Rupert said, addressing Shemsa, with apology in his voice.

Shemsa shrugged. Kennedy said, "No kidding."

Rupert took off his glasses and polished them. "Are you both, er, all right?"

"Yessir," said Shemsa. She shrugged again. "My Watcher is out there somewhere. I feel it now."

"No, I'm not all right. I had a Watcher. I thought we were getting along fine. But she just dumped me." Kennedy's voice was like a glass-cutter, all shriek and slice.

"Beg pardon?" Rupert put his glasses back on. He looked annoyed.

"She matched me with somebody else. Not her. That was cold."

Xander exchanged a look with Rupert. Willow answered before he could, however. "Er, I don't do the matching. It's more like I ask something outside myself who to match somebody up with. I think the Powers are the ones who answer. Somebody in the spiritual world, anyway."

Shemsa said, "We were with the wrong Watchers?"

Rupert said, "We let you all gravitate toward the partners you felt most comfortable with. And in the main it worked. We had only the, er, the one mismatch."

"Two mismatches," said Shemsa. She shrugged. Xander could tell already that she would be fine.

"Willow should have told me in private." Kennedy seemed angrier, if anything. Xander could feel it vibrating from her. Angry Slayers were not comfortable people to be near. He was grateful for Buffy's presence.

"What?" Willow looked confused.

Buffy snorted. "I get it. She thinks she has to date her Watcher. Who said that? I'm not dating Giles. Never have, never will. No offense, Xan."

"None taken, Buff."

"I don't give a shit about whether you ever did it with him--"

"_Can it_," said Buffy. She had widened her stance and was on the balls of her feet.

"Yeah, okay, whatever. Not gonna let this go, Willow. You should have talked to me first." Kennedy shouldered between Xander and Rupert on her way out.

"Oh dear," said Rupert. "She's misunderstood."

"I'll talk to her," said Xander. He wasn't looking forward to it, but as of now it was his job. He sighed.

"Give her some time, Xan. She'll chill out in a few hours, and her brain will start working again. She's not a moron. Just a jackass. Oh. Eep! Sorry, Will! Um, I'm audi before I say something even worse." Buffy wound her arm through Shemsa's and the pair left together.

Willow sighed. Rupert brushed a hand against her shoulder. "Congratulations. You did well, Willow. It went just as we hoped it would. Aside from, well. Travers and this."

Willow shook her head. "I'm not going to blame the spell for this one. It's been touchy for a while. She wigged out because she's been expecting me to break up. So you know, it's kind of a relief that you're her Watcher not me, Xan."

Xander shrugged. He'd take a lot of bullets for Willow, but maybe he wouldn't have signed up for this one. "Hey, wait. Travers?" Xander had chased an upset Kennedy out of the room seconds after he'd touched her.

"Travers. Hell. He was not summoned," Rupert said. "Completely baffled by what we were going on about. And then furious beyond words once he realized it meant we won't give him a Slayer."

Willow sighed. "We can't give him a Slayer, Giles. He doesn't belong with one. I don't care how many generations his family has been in the Council."

"I don't care either. He can do administrative work or find another post." Rupert set his jaw, and that was that. Xander hid his smile. The guy was a sanctimonious jerk. He fought every single edit Rupert made to the handbook. He'd shouted about Cruciamentum's vital importance until Xander had thought Rupert was going to slug him. Buffy nearly had.

Willow took off to go mop up after the spell. The moment the door was shut behind her Rupert's arms were around Xander. He leaned in. Xander opened his mouth and tasted Rupert, all tea and marmalade. They hadn't had a chance to do this since yesterday morning. No sex in more than a week, thanks to chaos and scheduling and trips to London. Rupert shifted and pulled Xander close against his chest, hip to hip. He moved a hand behind Xander's head and tangled his fingers in Xander's hair. And unfortunately right over a sore spot.

Xander flinched. "Ow! Watch the bruises. Got banged up last night."

Rupert eased off his grip instantly, and plucked at the sleeve of the pink sweatshirt. "You all right? What happened?"

"Demon. I gotta get Dawn and Andrew to help me with an ID. But beyond that, man, Rupert, about ten times as many vamps on our last training run. We got a problem. Shemsa was seriously wigged by the energies zapping around. Can, uh, can there be two hellmouths at once?"

**Two PM**

A quick sandwich and a shower made Xander feel a million times better. Almost human again. He put drops in his socket, and then strapped on a clean eyepatch. He'd rinse out the other one later. He checked himself in the mirror. What was the damage? Bruise on the left cheek, deep puncture wounds and claw scrapes on his upper left arm. The demon had blind-sided him. Xander barked out a bitter laugh. No metaphor, that.

He was going to have to nudge Willow about getting a prosthetic enchanted. Even the kind of ghostly evil-detection she said was all she could do would be a help. Anything. He was handicapped. Not as effective as he should be, no matter what Rupert said about complementing his Slayer's skills and all that. He was half-blind. Some day it was going to kill him.

That was his quota for self-pity for one day. Time to use the mirror for what it was good for: shaving. While he buzzed the razor over his jaw Xander forced himself to think about practical stuff. Slayer stuff.

Xander rebandaged his arm, then padded barefoot back to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. He put Shemsa's sweatshirt into the clothes hamper. He'd got blood and crumbs all over it. When he had ten seconds free he'd wash it, fold it, return it to her and take the opportunity to apologize. Though what he had to apologize for, he wasn't sure. He wouldn't have chosen another Slayer if it had been up to him. He liked Shemsa. He was going to miss working with her.

What was he supposed to do with a Slayer he didn't like? He'd tried, for Willow's sake, but Kennedy hadn't made it easy. She'd had money her whole life. She'd never lacked for anything, ever. When she wanted something, she bought it. The concept of buying used clothes, used anything, had baffled her. She'd laughed when Xander had told the story about driving an ice cream truck, and asked him what bet he'd lost. And laughed at him again when he'd said it was because he'd needed a job. Yeah, that still rankled.

Rupert had told him enough stories that he knew Watchers didn't always get along with their Slayers. Sometimes Rupert and Buffy had been furious with each other, deeply hurt by each other. Being bound by destiny wasn't always fun. But underneath all that, the whole time, they'd loved each other. And when it counted, they took care of each other. Kept each other alive.

Could he care about Kennedy like that?

Xander sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on thick socks. He was Kennedy's guardian now, spiritual and physical. The Powers had given him the job. And damned if he wasn't going to do it. He was going to be that trustworthy for Kennedy. Willow saw something in her. He was going to act like he liked her, and then he'd start liking her. And Buffy was probably right that she'd stop being pissed with him as soon as she calmed down enough to think.

What did he like about Kennedy? She was reasonably smart. She had a lot of training from her first Watcher. She fought well and kept her head in a crisis. She was brave. Okay. Those were good things in a Slayer. He could work with those.

Xander sighed. Time to head back to the Council buildings. They had a pow-wow scheduled with everybody present to hear his report about Cardiff.

**Three PM**

They were all there in the conference room, spread around the huge table in the comfy chairs, waiting. All the Watchers and their Slayers, and some of the more experienced unattached Slayers. The whole Cleveland contingent was present, Faith and Wood with Rona, Chao-Ahn, and Shannon following them like ducklings.

Xander had been afraid he'd be late, but he'd been on time. Rupert was late. Fifteen minutes late. If he hadn't been known to be on Council grounds, surrounded by about thirty Slayers, Xander might have been nervous.

Rona and Shemsa were trying to make themselves sick spinning around on their chairs, only since they were Slayers, it was impossible. They were doing great at making Xander sick from just watching them.

Kennedy was there, about as far from Willow as she could get. Xander had plunked himself down next to her, on her left, where he could start with the making friends project. Only she hadn't spoken to him or to anyone. He tried again. "Hey."

She stared at him. "What?"

"Wanna get together for tea after this? Catch up?"

"Sorry, got plans."

"Tomorrow? Lunch?"

Kennedy stayed stony-faced. "All right. Lunch." She turned away. Well, could have been worse. She hadn't grimaced at him or made fun of him or anything.

The door opened and Rupert strode in, moving fast. He looked harassed. He sat in the open chair next to Buffy.

"Sorry I'm late. We, er, had a young boy appear at the gate on his bicycle. He was quite definite that he'd been called here." Rupert pinched the bridge of his nose, then resettled his glasses.

Faith snickered. "A mini-Watcher? What did you do with him?"

Rupert hid his face in his hands. "Called his mother and offered him a scholarship to our exclusive private school. Said he'd impressed me with his obvious intelligence."

Faith and Buffy snorted as one. "Did she buy it?" Buffy asked.

"Eventually." Rupert raised an eyebrow. What they did was an open secret in the village and probably had been for as long as Gileses had lived there, but not everybody paid attention to it.

"This what you expected? Kids as Watchers?" Wood said.

"Feared more than expected, but we can cope. Our youngest Slayer is twelve, so we've got the facilities for young adolescents. And we have a second surprise recruit, one with considerably more experience."

"Who?" said Buffy.

"Armitage," said Rupert. In response to Faith's gesture, he continued. "My estate caretaker. Was a field Watcher once, but he's been retired since he lost his Slayer."

"Yeah, and he lost half his _leg_ at the same time," said Xander. "Chewed clean off by a hellhound. Is this a good idea?"

"The magic doesn't care. And, er, Vi has a Watcher now. You've been worried about her."

"Yeah, but..."

"I know," said Rupert.

"We knew this might happen," Willow said. "We knew we'd be surprised. But it was the right thing to do. None of these people would have been happy without a chance to fulfill their destiny. And without them we'll lose Slayers."

"Unacceptable," murmured Rupert. His shoulders slumped for a moment, then he straightened them and sat back in his chair. "That's not our topic today. We're here to discuss some troubling developments in Cardiff and in Cleveland. Robin, would you begin with a summary of what you and the Cleveland Slayers have been observing?"

Wood cleared his throat. "To be blunt, a marked decline in activity. Rapid onset. About two weeks ago, the vampire kill numbers started dropping, and not because of any change in our patrol patterns."

"As if we'd slack," Faith muttered.

And they were off. Xander was surprised to find himself not just interested, but taking notes. And when his turn came, to discuss what he and Shemsa had observed, he was all organized in his head and ready with a coherent summary. Where he missed details, Shemsa was right there to fill in. When he got Rupert's pleased nod, he felt great. Awesome. Part of a well-oiled team. A team that was now broken up.

Kennedy sat the whole time with her arms folded, completely silent. Xander wondered if he was ever going to be able to make this work.

**Seven PM**

Dinner brought together the inner circle, the five of them who'd been together all along, plus Wood and Faith. The fodder was gallons of a thick lamb and potato stew that Rupert had made earlier in the week, when he'd been fretting about the upcoming ritual, and crusty wheat bread that Xander had baked yesterday while he and Dawn had played study-buddies on Clausewitz. He was getting pretty good at baking, and did a mean cheddar cheese bread that Dawn was addicted to. They ate in the kitchen, because this was family. Xander sat at Rupert's left, as always, where watching him didn't require turning his head. Willow was at Xander's left. She was one of the few people he trusted in his blind spot like that. Buffy was okay when she paid attention. She was at Rupert's right, fiddling with her spoon and not eating much.

Kennedy would normally have been there, by her rights as Willow's girlfriend, but Xander guessed that was all over bar one last bout of shouting.

The topic of conversation was the ritual, and the surprises. Of course.

"This matching approach isn't new," Rupert was saying.

"It used to be done by the Council seer," Dawn said. "According to this thing I just read. They abandoned the practice in modern times, but they used to do it Willow's way all the time."

"Why'd they stop?" Wood said.

"Seer died, didn't have a replacement. Didn't look for one. The modern Council was sorta stupid."

"Yeah, no shit," said Faith.

"So Wills, who'd you end up with?" Buffy asked.

Willow poked at her bowl. "Nobody. Nobody felt right. No, that's backwards. I'm not supposed to have a Slayer. I'm not a Watcher, exactly. I mean, I've got a sense that my destiny is doing Watchery things, but it's not about me teaming up with one of you guys. Gals. You Slayery types."

"So what are you, then?"

"Our seer," Dawn said.

"I'm not sure what Willow is." Rupert was methodically shredding his bread. He looked down at his hands and then brushed them clean over his plate. He sat back. "Seer is as good a word as any."

"Witchy woman!" said Xander, through his mouthful of bread. "My little wiccan is getting so big now! Aw. So are you going to be a full oracle some day?"

Willow made a face at him. "I dunno about this seer thing. I haven't ever foreseen anything. Like this hellmouth transfer thing. I had no clue."

Faith said, "Slayer stuff. Our job to notice the tingles like that. No clue what it means most of the time. That's for the bookmen. Book-people, sorry Dawn."

Buffy put down her spoon with a clank. "Speaking of books. What do we know about how hellmouths work? 'Cause this Cleveland thing is weird. It was there for, what, less than a year? Brief me."

Rupert answered. "I know little. There was a fellow, Kip Johnson, who'd been doing heavy research into hellmouths. Where they come from, how to predict their fluctuations, how to contain them, all that."

"So let's read his stuff."

"It blew up. Along with him," Rupert said, simply.

"No off-site backups, I assume." Willow was forlorn.

"Kippy had heard of computers, but had no truck with them. He was seventy."

"Repeat previous comment about Council dumb-assery," said Faith, rolling her eyes.

Xander met Rupert's glance. Kippy, whoever he'd been, had been a nice guy. He could tell from Rupert's face. Xander had never known all these people, had never seen what the Council had before. His only view into the size of the loss was moments like this, when Rupert said that the world's knowledge of hellmouths was gone, along with a guy Rupert had liked.

Rupert polished his glasses on his napkin. "Well. Even without that knowledge, I think it's clear that the Cleveland hellmouth is closing, and some sort of rift to the underworld is opening in Cardiff. You should plan on moving here, er, soon. Immediately."

"Pack up your leather pants," Buffy said to Faith. "And get ready to buy a lot of raincoats. We Slay in the rain here."

Xander couldn't resist. "Slayin' in the rain, just slayin' in the rain." Faith threw a crust of bread at him and nailed him in the forehead.

**Ten PM**

Xander made his excuses to their guests early, and left everybody in front of the fire in the living room, mired in a happy argument over whether it was cheating to memorize a Scrabble dictionary or not. Rupert and Dawn, being the sort of people who had already memorized it, were holding forth on the topic of "not". Xander was happy being the kind of guy who played words like "the" and "cat", and he was tired. He wanted to brush his teeth, take another handful of ibuprofen, and sack out.

He'd achieved the first two on the list when Rupert appeared. He closed the door of the bedroom behind him, and turned the lock. He leaned his head against the door and groaned.

Xander over-handed his t-shirt at the hamper and scored. Three-point shot. Not bad for the blind guy. "No groaning. It went well," he said to Rupert.

"Oh, too bloody well. Travers rejected, Armitage's retirement summarily ended, Kennedy's nose out of joint, and the mother of a ten-year-old boy furious with me."

"Nothing blew up."

Rupert relented and gave Xander a little smile. "Nothing blew up."

Xander felt more than saw Rupert watching him unzip his jeans, so he did it a little more slowly than he might have normally. A little more with the hands rubbing down his thighs. It had been more than a week, after all, and Rupert hated going without as much as Xander did. Briefs off, also fired at the hamper. Jeans were good for another wear or two. He folded them, aware that Rupert was still watching him. It was enough to get him a little excited, even though he was beat.

He slid into the bed on the left side, and stretched. His turn to watch now, while Rupert emptied his pockets methodically onto his dresser. He stripped himself equally methodically, folding his clothes loosely and dropping them on top of Xander's in the hamper. That was Rupert for you: folding clothes he was about to wash. And then putting on pajamas, even though he must be hoping to take them off in about two minutes. Rupert wore flannel pajamas in the cold weather, though in deference to Xander's wishes he'd been leaving off the shirt and sleeping in the pants only. Blue stripey pajamas tonight. Xander preferred sleeping in the nude, on the just in case theory.

At last Rupert was in bed next to him, and the light was off. They lay on their sides, nose to nose.

"Are you all right?" Rupert asked. He fiddled with Xander's tooth necklace.

"Yeah, I guess. Kinda disappointed. I thought I was with the right Slayer. It felt good. I thought I'd bonded with Shemsa. Guess I was wrong."

"Of course you bonded with her, Xan. People bond with each other all the time without the benefit of magic. You worked together closely. You get along. So you bonded."

"Oh."

Rupert slipped a hand up and massaged under the eyepatch strap at Xander's temple. The strap bugged him sometimes. He still couldn't take it off in front of anybody without getting tense.

"Kennedy isn't, isn't the easiest Slayer to work with, but we must trust the magic. It wants you two together for some reason we can't guess at."

"Yeah, I'm all right with that. I'll do my best."

"Course you will. You always do. Mmm. Come here." Rupert kissed him, then backed off. He ran his hands gently over Xander's bandages. "These bother you?"

"Naw. I mean, yes. Console me, for I will have a new set of scars." Xander snickered.

"Do shut up," Rupert said. His voice was husky. That all by itself was enough to get Xander hot.

Rupert did all the work tonight, which was fair; he didn't have bruises purpling over his entire left side. Rupert was quiet when he made love. Not silent, but soft. All you heard was quiet moans and gasps, little sounds muffled against Xander's neck. Sometimes words, half-coherent whispers, words like "yes" and "please". And he was completely quiet when he came, all held breath and shuddering and hands trembling even as he tried to keep stroking. He liked simple things in bed. Xander hadn't yet coaxed him into the more complicated stuff. He said he preferred to be face-to-face. And Xander couldn't argue too much with that. Face-to-face allowed kissing, and kissing was good. So good.

Xander lay back like a dead man afterwards. He'd been tired before. Now he was zonked. In a blissed-out post-sex hazy good zonk, but definitely a zonk. Rupert dunked the towel into the hamper then got back into bed. Xander cuddled up.

He had a sudden thought. Rupert was quiet, but what was he? He had no idea. He couldn't remember if he'd been making noise a minute ago, even. "Hey. What do I sound like?"

"What?"

"What do I sound like when we make love? Do I make noise? I have no clue. I could sound like a lovelorn yak for all I know."

Rupert's chest shook underneath him. "Yes, but you're my lovelorn yak."

"I'm serious!"

"Xan. Go to sleep."

Xander didn't need to be told twice. He was beyond bushed. He settled himself against Rupert's shoulder again and let himself drift down.

**Three AM**

Xander came slowly awake. His head was on Rupert's shoulder. The room was dark, though the curtains were open. Rain spattered against the windows. It was a good night to be home, in this warm bed, sleeping naked under clean sheets. He'd slept with his socks on last night, he'd been so tired, and he hated that. "Better without socks," he mumbled.

"Mmmm?"

"Socks. Don't like 'em."

"G'back sleep." Then Rupert lifted his head. "What's that sound?"

"Huh?"

Rupert sat up, dislodging him. Now Xander heard it too, the thing that had woken him: hammering on the front door. Somebody shouted. Rupert was out of bed already, moving to the bedroom door while he pulled on his robe. Xander found Rupert's pajama bottoms and yanked them on. He ran downstairs.

More pounding and shouting. Male voice. English. "Open up! Let me in."

Rupert pulled an axe from the display on the wall. None of the weapons in this house were only for show. Rupert hefted it, shifted his grip, and unbolted the door.

"Wesley?" Rupert moved aside from the doorway, but didn't put the axe down.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, dorkiest Watcher ever, stepped over the threshold into the hallway. He stood with his hands upraised, palms forward to indicate he wasn't armed. His eyes tracked the axe, flicked aside to Xander, then went back to Rupert.

Buffy came skidding down the stairs, dressed in way less than Xander might have guessed she usually slept in. He didn't have attention to spare for her, though. Something was seriously wrong with Wesley. He was not giving off dork vibes in any way. Dangerous vibes. He looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a vamp pit: unshaven, hair sticking up every which way, big black circles under his eyes. He had a nasty scar on his throat. His expression was several miles south of grim. Xander widened his stance and shifted his weight.

"Wesley?" Rupert said again. He lowered the axe and carefully leaned it against the wall with the blade on the rug.

Wesley took another step forward, planted himself, and slugged Rupert in the jaw. Rupert went over. An instant later Wesley was flat on his back under the combined weight of Xander and Buffy. He strained upward under them, struggling wildly.

"Rupert, you bastard! What the _hell_ have you done to me?"


End file.
